NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire

by Jason Crutchfield

  “At birth or during their first nanite surgery, a password is hardwired into every human, particularly into the neural infrastructure surrounding the nanites. Because having a nanite implant, in essence, makes your brain partially computerized, the passcode keeps hackers from forming a direct link to your brain for purposes of tracking or worse. This passcode became a person's real name, or real identity. Unanimously it was decided that only a person's nanite surgeon would have access to this passcode and thus a person's real name. While this gives the surgeon immense power over people, it also inflicts upon them extreme accountability. If a name leaks, it can always be traced back to the acting nanite surgeon. This is also why having multiple nanite surgeons is a dangerous endeavor.” Minette's matter-of-fact response was met with a sigh that bled into a satisfied but disenchanted nod.

  “Yes, textbook as always, Minette. Your extravagant regurgitation inspires the vomit in us all. Of course, I am unable to discredit your evaluation as it is quite accurate. Keep up the excellent work, my dear.” Oswald placed the finishing touches on his patient's brain before beginning the process of stitching his scalp back together like a toupee designed to cover his naked neurons. Oswald moved his nimble fingers like a maestro combing the darkness to elicit the desired responses from his instruments. His talents were unrivaled, and in all my years of watching him work I never once saw a patient die under his scalpel. When the final snips sealed the man's skull securely into place, Oswald stood, gripped a fluffy white towel, and began vigorously wiping the blood from his hands.

  “Minette, dispose of the patient. And by that, of course, I mean escort him to one of our luxurious guest rooms and ensure that he is comfortably taking repose.” As Oswald spoke the words, Minette offered a mocking salute and began rolling the surgical table across the room toward the stairs.

  “Come on Mister Tilmitt, let's get you all cleaned up!” Minette's bubbly words actually sent shivers down the length of my spine.

  “I hope he's not dreaming. That creepy voice would surely turn them into nightmares,” I trailed off as I watched the sashay of Minette's petite hips straining to heave the wheels up and over each step. Once Oswald confirmed she was out of sight and earshot, he turned to face me and any amusement or pleasantry he feigned washed from his face like water on an oil painting.

  “You would still be in the wastes had you not made progress toward your goal. I trust Al is either dead, dismembered, or both. And that self-satisfied smirk of yours, quite frankly, betrays you! So then, what did you discover and what is your next course of action?” The heavy thud of his boots echoed in the dark chambers of his laboratory as his overbearing frame hovered over me with smothering anticipation.

  “Calm down, Doc,” I placed the flat of my palm against his chest and pushed him back a few inches. The act required a fair amount of effort, for the doctor's muscles were reinforced by a Supersoldier implant; such physical augments were hardly commonplace among doctors, but I had never bothered to ask him why he possessed one.

  Once his gleaming baldness was no longer close enough to blind me, I continued, “Before he stopped breathing, Al gave me the name of a contact living somewhere around the vicinity of old Texas named Raze. I assume he's some kind of crime lord. Most people that know Bradich are. Crelyos came from that area, so I've convinced him to guide me there. I'm sure that Raze isn't a dead end, so I don't know how long it will be before I come back, old man.”

  Oswald relinquished a sigh, “You know, child, this may be an inconveniently late and terribly unfair question at this point, but have you considered that this wild goose chase is unprofitable and ultimately irrelevant?” The look of desperation that washed over his face sparked a twitch from my brow. I could feel anger churning within the pit of my sickened stomach.

  “Unprofitable? Irrelevant? Listen, Oswald, Donovan meant just as much to you as he did to me, so why are you okay with his killer waltzing around spitting on everything he stood for?” The words dripped from my mouth like a venomous salivation.

  “I most certainly did not mean to imply I do not wish to see justice. But think about it, if you leave and something happens to make you require surgery, what will you do? Allow another surgeon to operate you? I cannot begin to express the irresponsibility of that decision considering your unique condition. Donovan made me promise to take care of you.” Oswald lifted his finger to reinforce his points.

  “Special condition, that's all I ever hear from you. You worry too much. I've come too far to just up and abandon my pursuit, especially now that I have the first good lead I've gotten in almost ten years!” I grunted at him. The doctor's constant state of calm managed to alleviate my anger a bit, but my resolve to pursue Bradich would not be swayed by a detail as minute as surgical monopoly.

  “I'm not merely speaking of your unique Cognitive Accelerator which allows you to hyper-accelerate the chemical processes of your brain and slow down your perception of time. Though that alone will require several more years of study to fully comprehend, the fact that you possess more nanites than any other human being on record without the ill effects of hyperaugmentation is a far more important avenue of concern. If another surgeon were to open your skull and see the hardware wired to your brain…” His voice trailed off as he no doubt imagined a hypothetical surgeon selling that crucial information for enormous wealth or favor. He shook his head to and fro in disgust.

  His words rang true. After the incident in Cairo ten years ago, something in me changed. According to Doctor Oswald, after a severe injury of which I remember very little and the ensuing operation to rectify my wounds, my bio-electric impulses overloaded and caused the equivalent of a short circuit in my busted brain. The nanites warped, or mutated depending on how much of the organic artificial intelligence theory in which one believed, and caused baffling effects.

  Since then, the network of nanites in my cortical folds worked in perfect synchronization with my mind. As a result, it seemed that the integration of my thoughts with the nanites rendered me immune to the effects of hyperaugmentation. Doctor Oswald believed testing the limits of that was paramount to advancing human abilities and to maximize brain potential. Already I possessed more than ten implants, ranging from my Cognitive Accelerator to augments heightening each of the five senses.

  “Doc, I understand, but… I just can't stop now. I'm sorry, but I'm going. I understand if you don't agree, but I'd at least like to get a final checkup done and borrow a few supplies from you. That ammo you make for my rifle is phenomenal.” I offered him my best rendition of a bittersweet smile, but it likely lacked any emotion save a minute twinkle of sadness and dread at the prospect of leaving Oswald behind. The old man grew on a person fast.

  “Ihlia… I…” Minette's distant, piercing cries spiraling down the stairwell cut Oswald's words short. The tiny surgical assistant frantically called out to us from above, but her squeaky yelp interrupted her deafening shouts. Likely stubbing her toe against one of the stone stairs, Minette banged and rolled down the stairs with a vicious clamor. In the end, she spilled into the lab and skidded to a painful halt flat on her face.

  “Doctor, Doctor! It's terrible! Quick! Bojack says a herd of hyped is chasing back one of our scavengers! He says it's Allen!” Her message, while discernable, certainly lacked the clarity of a person that wasn't eating cement.

  “Calm down, Minette, I'm sure it's… Hyped? Allen? Oh no, Ihlia! Quickly! We must report to Bojack! I have no intention of losing another member of this city!” Oswald broke into a sprint while beckoning for me to follow. I complied without hesitation.

  File 06: The Terror of the Hyped

  My noir surroundings blurred across my peripherals like the fog of a dream. The only pertinent object in my vision became Oswald's stark white coat fluttering in the night's frozen winds. Within moments, we approached the jutting tower tipped with a platform that threatened to reach the heavens
. The familiar buzz of my Supersoldier nanite activating sent chills along my spine as the tiny machines throttled into high gear.

  My legs bulged with infused prowess for but an instant, and I slammed my feet into the earth with as much fervor as I could muster; with my newfound strength, the resulting leap rocketed me several meters into the air toward the ringed ladder leading to the perch. The rungs' cold steel bit my fingers as I clung to the ladder and, without pause, rapidly ascended it. Already the deafening sounds of rifle fire echoed throughout Junction City as I reached the top of its tallest roost. Bojack frantically fired into the distance, likely targeting the herd of hyped supposedly chasing Allen.

  Allen was one of Junction City's many scavengers. With brown hair, green eyes, and plain features, Allen stood out in Junction City solely because he befriended and assisted anyone he met. Many new settlers owed Allen for their transitional ease into the city's lifestyle. But as a scavenger, Allen traversed the wastes, sometimes days at a time, to procure rare and expensive artifacts.

  Allen thoroughly enjoyed his line of work and often commented that the key to the world's restoration would most certainly be found in its ruins, but at the end of the day it was Allen's wife and daughter that inspired him to seek out treasure. Providing them with a life that satisfied their every need and desire remained the strongest motivation of his excursions. Allen's dedication to the restoration of the world through his archaeological adventures, devotion as a loving husband and father, and perpetual kindness to those immediately surrounding him earned him a place in the hearts of everyone living in Junction City. Bojack was no exception, as indicated by the increasing concern that drew the very color from his darkened face.

  “Bastards, I won't let them take him!” Bojack's eyes shot wide open, but while his marksmanship was marvelous, his emotional attachment to the situation shook his normally steady grip and hastened his normally patient aim. As I shouldered my bolt-action rifle and activated my vision enhancement, I quickly understood the reason for his composure's deterioration. Roughly a mile from the gates of the city, Allen desperately fled from a group of sixteen hyped. The idea that he managed to maintain distance between himself and the monsters for so long spoke volumes of his endurance… or his luck. Unfortunately, hyped lacked concepts of fatigue and common sense. They would pursue a target until killed or successful.

  I felt fate and the Reaper staring through the cold, windy night like a pair of critics enjoying a live performance of a drama the ending to which they were already well aware, an ending to which I was also well aware.

  “Bojack, calm down. You're not hitting anything by worrying about the scavenger,” my words pierced him like icy daggers: cold but true. I recognized an immediate change in his disposition as he fought to regain control of his rampant emotions. A sense of relief washed over me as well, and together, we took aim like a pair of synchronized swimmers. As the tension peaked, my Cognitive Accelerator awakened with a hum. Together, Bojack and I squeezed our respective triggers.

  The cracks echoed in unison as our bullets cut through the inky blackness toward their unsuspecting targets. Bojack's target was a grunting hyped far to Allen's left, and he fell with a short but audible shout of surprise. The projectile that spiraled from my firearm sailed over the top of Allen's head. One of the murderous beasts nipped at his heels, but with my enhanced vision and slowed sense of time, I determined that the hyped would leap at Allen to secure the kill.

  My prediction proved correct as the monster soared through the air… and directly into the path of my high caliber round. With more force than that which he exerted, the hyped careened backward with a heavy crunch into the dirt. As the slow motion impact of his body indented the cracked mixture of sand and clay, the gruesome reality of the situation fortified my concerns. Allen's endurance was waning, the hyped were gaining ground too quickly, and we could not fire quickly enough.

  “Bojack, we can't…” I never took my finger from the trigger, but my voice was enough to elicit a growl from the lion-like figure next to me.

  “If you got time to talk, you got time to shoot.” His machinations released another round into the darkness and another hyped fell, but it was not enough.

  I heard the grumbling of the city folk beneath us as our gunfire roused them from their peaceful slumber. With time moving sluggishly around me, I perceived the people of Junction City with perfect clarity from the corner of my eye. Most citizens grumbled at the disturbance, and some feigned concern for whatever lurked in the dark beyond the city walls. Only two rushed out at the first sign of danger: Allen's wife, a beautiful brunette with pellucid azure eyes and a slender frame, and his daughter, a teenager sporting dirty blond locks that curled about her face, a pair of vivid brown eyes, and a developing body blossoming into womanhood. Unable to find the peaceful embrace of sleep without their loving provider, the two must have often spent their nights frantically worrying; unfortunately, for likely the first time, the situation warranted their concern.

  Their faces contorted in terror as the realization sank in that the only reason for our fervent assault was the impending threat to Allen's mortal coil. Still under the effects of Cognitive Acceleration, I prepared to squeeze another futile round off to satiate Bojack's desperation, but my perception snapped back to normal when the sound of the giant metal gate slamming open broke my concentration. Bojack and I swiftly lowered our gaze to the source of the ruckus. To our astonishment, the city's gates were kicked wide open by the heavy combat boot of Junction City's most mysterious mercenary, Crelyos.

  I watched in awe as he shot into the darkness like a missile. His legs gradually increased their workload to maximize his velocity. As a soldier in the American Armed Forces, Crelyos had no doubt been augmented by the Supersoldier implant. Like a multi-faceted steroid, the Supersoldier implant provided general boosts to speed, endurance, strength, and reflexes; as a mandatory implant for all military personnel, it stood to reason that Crelyos housed it in his cranium. Crelyos targeted the herd of hyped with wild abandon. I calculated his estimated time of arrival at just under one minute. I once more focused on the scavenger sprinting from his forlorn fate. The sickening dread mounting in my stomach like rising yeast popped; Bojack released a mournful howl.

  Allen's backpack, a standard for all explorers, became his executioner. Like a rubber band drawn too taut, Allen snapped backward with a piercing gasp as a hyped's outstretched hand clasped around his pack and tugged him into the eagerly awaiting crowd. The sight of his visage twisting into sheer terror engraved itself in my conscience forever. I beheld the exact moment when Allen's weak hope morphed into a fearful understanding of the nightmarish end waiting to confront him. It was as though all the pain yet inflicted and all the horror yet experienced flashed through his mind and transformed his face in a split second. As the herd swarmed about their victim, Bojack's tormented howl shifted to an enraged roar.

  The roar persisted through the duration of our gunfire. Shell after shell escaped the bolt-action chambers of our rifles, and body after body of the crazed hyped dropped lifelessly to the ground. But it was still not enough. I entertained the notion that Bojack's fury was for us both, for I retained the calm reserve needed to efficiently stop the hearts of the assailants in the distance. On the other hand, Bojack's rage darkened his telescopic sight and he failed to definitively kill many of his intended targets. Truly, it mattered little. The likelihood that Allen still breathed amid the flailing limbs of the psychotic afflicted was virtually nonexistent.

  Crelyos neared the scene, and many of the hyped turned to face him with morbid roars. As though anticipating further entertainment, their bloodstained, half-naked bodies tensed expectantly and propelled them forward to meet the man brave enough to dance to their macabre steps. I subconsciously slowed time between my shots to analyze Crelyos' fighting style, about which I knew nothing.

  As the first hyped reached the blond mercenar
y, he rabidly threw his fist in an attempt to connect with Crelyos' jaw. Unfortunately for him, Crelyos caught his wrist in his left hand with the subtle grace of a bear. The mercenary twisted and drew the afflicted over his shoulder in what started as a standard judo toss. As the hyped inverted during the final portion of the throw, about the time his legs sailed overhead, Crelyos punched his open right palm against the hyped's pectoral. What happened next widened my eyes.

  The flesh, sinew, and bone unraveled from the impact. A fissure divided the hyped's chest and shoulder with a deep reverberation accompanied by the hyped's grotesque roar. At the point Crelyos was supposed to release his assailant to complete the judo toss, he clutched the hyped's wrist tighter. In the end, the afflicted sailed through the air with a crater punched into his pectoral; he left behind both a trail of spewing blood and the detached arm flopping about in Crelyos' grip. Crelyos' ability obviously stemmed from a nanite, but my brain reeled with questions as to its origins and the true breadth of its capabilities.

  With uncanny awareness, Crelyos instinctively ducked with the momentum gained from his throw. A second attack whizzed over the back of his head from another of the hyped attempting to capitalize on Crelyos' exposed backside, but as Crelyos moved with the fluid tempo of a seasoned martial artist, I realized Crelyos was not dancing to the hyped's macabre steps after all; they were dancing to his.

  Crelyos, still crouched, spun toward the hyped and quickly shot upright. He wielded the arm of the first unfortunate hyped like a deadly mace and brought it to bear in an uppercut against the second's chin. The brute's painful cry reached my ears, not surprising, since the force of the blow lifted him into the air almost an entire foot. His head arched back with such ferocity that I was almost certain a small nudge would have torn it clean from his shoulders.